


Twenty-Two Stories

by MccoyKat



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-01
Updated: 2018-12-07
Packaged: 2019-03-25 15:04:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13837275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MccoyKat/pseuds/MccoyKat
Summary: Peter Parker is at the end of his rope and just wants some quiet. Can finding a dead body in an alley actually lead him to heal?





	1. Chapter 1

Peter was walking home, backpack heavy on his shoulders, counting dates and figuring out how to best get the flowers delivered; when he saw it.

  
Arguably, the use of alleys when getting home meant that he was genuinely more likely to find a dead body. But even for New York, this wasn’t exactly what he had in mind. Even if the streetlights lights had just flicked on, and everything had a surreal orange colour to it; finding a dead body hadn’t been a part of his plan for the day.

Part of him wanted to just keep walking, a large part. Not my problem, not my problem, he told himself, backing out of the alley. This could, for once, be someone else’s problem.

  
It wasn’t that he was a bad guy, some might even say that he was a superhero, but right now there was too much, right now this could be the straw that broke the camels back and he couldn’t take it.

  
It would be exactly five years since Uncle Ben had died tomorrow. Another body in another alley was not going to be a part of his tragedy. This guy obviously already had his own.

  
He would leave a tip with the police, anonymous, as always, and then continue on with his life. He’d order Aunt May flowers, and go with her to the graveyard tomorrow. Then he’d stay in his apartment until he felt as though the breaking pieces had, at least temporarily, be tied back together.

  
He’d told the Avengers he was gone for a while, the Fantastic Four would pick up anyone for the next week. He wasn’t the only one with losses, but right now he couldn’t care. He’d dealt with it, as best as he could. And he’d do the same with this body.

  
At least, that’s what he told himself until the body groaned.

  
The guy had been dead. Absolutely had been dead. There had been enough blood pooling on the ground, the neck at an impossible angle. He’d been dead. It looked honestly like he’d jumped from a building. And now he was, moving?

  
“Ah shit,” the body said, slowly propping himself up to a sitting position; with a painful crunch, “I shoulda guessed that wouldn’t work. This is gonna suck.”

  
The popping and crunching continued, bones fusing back together and skin starting to knit itself into something more whole. Peter stared, the body was fulling clothed in a hoodie and jeans, covering basically every feature except the mouth. Whatever was going on was painful, but somehow, the guy was alive.

  
“Um,” He asked gracefully, “Are you alright.”

  
But it wasn’t really a question. Obviously, this man was far from alright, but damn if he could think of anything else to say.

  
The body turned to face him. Bright, manic eyes zeroed in on his face from beneath the shadow of the hoodie.

  
“Peachy keen, kid,” he said, smiling something awful, “Just gotta wait for everything to knit back together, then you can scamper on home and forget about the guy who just couldn’t die.”

  
He laughed, a gritty, awful sound; before curling in on himself some more.

  
“You’re not alright.” Peter murmured. Again, it wasn’t a question. But he was just standing there uselessly, he probably would be more helpful if he scampered off.

  
Instead made a split second decision. He would play the hero for at least another day. There was a first aid kit in his apartment and at least a shower.

  
Peter sighed and crouched down, placing himself at the same level as the man, “C’mon, let's get you some help.”

  
He held his hands up, an innocent, non-threatening gesture, before moving slowly towards him, like one would do with a wounded animal.

  
The man growled, “I’m not fucking going to a hospital. Your healthcare is shit, and I’m not gonna stay with the cooks and the crazies just so you can get some fucking good karma.”

  
Peter slide an arm under him, supporting him and coaxing him up.

  
“It’s not a hospital, but I can fix you up,” He reassured the other man, and they started to slowly move their way towards Peter’s apartment.

  
The man was shorter than Peter, but that wasn’t surprising. He was also stockier, with more muscle. He felt warm and solid and real to Peter, something that hadn’t happened in a while.

  
Each step seemed to agonize the other man, whose bones would occasionally snap into place, or crunch back into something more broken. The man had to be some kind of mutant, Peter assured himself, but no matter how strong the mutant, he felt that he could hold his own. That was the positive part of this entire mess. Inviting a stranger who should very well be dead into his apartment was probably not the most dangerous thing he’d do this week.

  
The man growled and swore the whole way, and it made the two blocks seem like an eternity. Peter suddenly remembered that he lived in a fourth-floor walk up, and sighed again. The strength that came with spider-man would be useful right about now, he could just carry the other man through the window. But he normally avoided doing anything to gain attention without the spandex. He was more careful with his identity than most superheroes, and he told himself still that this was so his Aunt May wouldn’t worry.

  
“Y’know, you haven’t even bought me dinner. My virtue isn’t so easily bought.” the man said about halfway up the stairs to Peter’s apartment.

  
“Are you kidding me?” Peter choked, wrenching himself out of his thoughts.

  
“No, I’m not kidding you. It’s not kosher to take someone up to your apartment before buying them dinner, or even knowing their name.”

  
The man was actually pouting. Honest to god pouting.

  
“I don’t think kosher is the word you want there. And you can give me your name and dinner after I stop you from dying” Peter said once he found his tongue.

  
“Please - I stopped dying a long time ago. Now I’m just-” here he cut off to groan as another bone audibly snapped into place, “now I’m just fixing myself fully.”

  
Peter rolled his eyes as they rounded the last set of stairs and started fishing in his pocket to get his keys. He felt a hand squeeze his butt and smacked at it.

  
“You really don’t make saving you a fun time, do you?” He asked the man, giving him a side eye as he unlocked his door.

  
“I didn’t need to be saved. You have to get that by now. But hey, nice shower, a meal maybe, and a new friend - shut up white box - that I’ll take any day.” The man said as the two stepped into Peter’s apartment.

  
“Uh huh.” Peter just nodded as he none-too-gently deposited the man onto the couch.

  
He went into the bathroom and pulled out his first aid kit, turning on the flickering yellow lights as he went. He caught sight of himself in the mirror. He looked tired and thin, the late nights and early mornings had probably caught up to him a few months ago. Somehow, after finding success and happiness in his undergrad, graduate school was getting to him. At least, that what the bruised circles under his eyes said.

  
He pulled on a sweater and walked back into the main room with the first aid kit, ominous red cross face down on the coffee table.

  
“Ok, so what exactly happened?” He asked, sitting himself down on the couch and opening the box to reveal all of the bandages and disinfectant.

  
“I was kicking some ass and maybe missed a roof that I thought was there.” The man shrugged, “Falling twenty-two stories doesn’t look pretty on anyone.”

  
“You’re kidding,” Peter said, pulling out some disinfectant wipes and trying to forget that he’d moved someone with a bunch of newly broken bones. And you probably shouldn’t move people with broken bones.

  
“You say that a lot.” The man said, “Look, I've mostly healed anyway, it’s fine.”

  
He pulled up his sleeve, and the gnarled skin looked anything but healthy, but there weren’t any cuts or fresh blood, just layers and layers of scars.

  
“Sure,” Peter dismissed as he grabbed the arm and started cleaning off the dried blood with a wipe. But the man was right, nothing was fresh and the cuts that should have been there weren't.

  
“So, are all your bones back in place and everything?” He asked after a moment of confused silence.

  
“I think so yeah, sometimes when I lose things it takes a while to grow back, but fixing is easy,” The man said, taking his arm back.

  
There was an awkward silence. Peter was contemplating how exactly someone could have so much experience with losing limbs.

  
“Ok. Um. Grab a shower I guess, I’ll make some food,” He eventually said, at a loss. Inviting the man in to fix him up had seemed like the right thing to do after being prepared to ignore a dead body. But now that he was clearly fine, Peter wasn’t sure what to do.

  
The man moved with slow, painful, but not terminal movements. He started to make his way to the hallway Peter had just walked out of.

  
“Jesus Peter, getting me out of my clothes before dinner or even asking my name,” he quipped.

  
His heart stopped for a bit.  _How does he know my name?_  Before he remembered that this sweater had is name tag from work on it.

  
“Door on the left,” he finally said, when he found his tongue again.

  
When he heard the door to the bathroom click shut, he turned to his kitchen. The small, singular wall wasn’t the most used part of his apartment. He looked into his fridge, there wasn’t much there. Some pasta sauce, some meat, and a bit of cheese, peanut butter and salsa. Tacos, maybe? Probably pasta. He dug around his food cupboard and found that he actually still had a few tortillas left from when MJ had decided to come over for a “Mexican night” last week. She tried to get him to do things other than work and wallow, but it lately it hadn’t been worth much.

  
As he started to nuke the taco meat, he figured he wasn’t worth much lately either. Sure, he was still getting the results that were expected of him. He even got invites to Stark Labs for events that were separate from the superhero stuff. But outside of that. He hadn’t seen Aunt May in weeks, and MJ had barely been around, even though she’d been trying. If he wanted the help, he should be able to get it. He was surrounded by people who would listen and help, but.

  
But recently, the easiest move had seemed to be that he should just start swinging and then let himself fall. Twenty-two stories didn’t look pretty on anyone, but it might just be better than him now.

  
“Damn Petey,” The man said, towel around his hips as he walked back into the room, “I didn’t peg you as the kind to use 3-in-1. No wonder you look rough.”

  
Peter gaped. Ok, sure, a mostly naked man was reason enough for him to gape normally, and this man was fit. There were muscles around more than Peter was used to, and he regularly hung out with superheroes. But what made his stomach drop were the scars. This man’s scars hadn’t been only on his arm. They covered his whole body, and his face, which had been covered by the hood, was as gnarled and angry as his arm. If he paused long enough, it was almost as though the scars were moving; evolving and building on top of each other.

  
“I know, pretty eh?” The man spread his arms, “But seeing as you didn’t leave me any clothes, and mine are kinda caked in blood, I figured this was good enough.”  
“Ah shit. Sorry,” Peter muttered and pulled the meat out of the microwave, where it had been beeping at him for the past few minutes. Then he ducked into his room.  
The man laughed, “Language Petey, your comic is actually for children.”

  
Peter ignored the man, and turned to his drawers. The man was a fair bit bigger than him, but he had to have something that would fit. Sweats were pretty flexible size wise, and he was sure he had a sweater somewhere that was too big. As he was bending down to look in the drawer, he felt someone come up behind him.

  
“Y’know,” the man said, his voice suddenly low and dangerous, “for someone as pretty as you are, I figured you’d know better than to invite strange men into your apartment.”

  
Peter stood up and looked him dead in the eyes, “I can handle myself.”

  
He shoved the sweats and the hoodie at the man, before stalking out to the main room to put together some tacos. Some asshole to think he could intimidate him like that.

  
He made about five tacos, comprised only of meat, cheese, and salsa. He took two for himself. and plated the other three; then set them on the table in front of the couch.

  
He sat down and started to nibble on the first one when the man came out of the bedroom. The pants were a little tight, which Peter figured was just unfair, grey sweatpants being what they were. But the sweater fit fine.

  
“Oh my god, Petey,” The man said, flouncing down onto the couch, “You made me tacos? I told myself to never propose before I had sex with them, but this might break that rule.”

  
Peter didn’t even respond, just gestured to the plate and tucked his body further into the corner of the couch - furthest away from the other man.

  
“You’re just mad,” The man said around a mouthful of taco, “that the author is Canadian and wrote this whole thing to make this joke, and the one about your healthcare.”

  
“No, I’m mad because you threatened to assault me,” Peter said, decidedly ignoring most of what the man said.

  
“I didn’t threaten shit. I said I thought you’d know better, especially being as pretty as you are.”

  
Somehow he’d finished his tacos. Peter let the silence drag on.

  
“So,” He eventually started, taking another bite of his.

  
“So what?” The man asked, eying the other taco on Peter’s plate.

  
“So. I got you naked and made you dinner. What’s your name?”

  
The man laughed, “Wade. Wade Wilson, mercenary extraordinaire.”

  
Peter’s eyes widened, “Deadpool?”

  
Wade met Peter’s gaze, as he swiped the other taco, “Oooh. You’ve heard of me - maybe he’s not so innocent - maybe you can look after yourself.”

  
“I-” Peter paused, unsure of how to admit that of course, he knew who the dangerous mercenary was. He should have guessed from all the scars. He was on all the lists of people to watch out for. To not engage with, and to call the Avengers or Professor X as soon as found. He’d done none of that. He’d made him dinner. He’d fucked up royally, but really, that was the trend of late.

  
“No it’s no worries,” Wade said, licking his fingers, “I’m always pleased to meet a fan. Unless, of course,” Here he paused, his voice again turning low and dangerous, “Are you one of the people who’s supposed to bring me in?”

  
Peter sighed, struggling to come up with a plan. I might as well just be honest, “I am. But don’t worry, I didn’t drug the tacos or anything. And I can’t be bothered to actually fight you on this. I’ll just take the slap on the wrists from the Avengers or Professor X and continue on with my life.”  
“Oooh,” here Wade looked genuinely excited, “You’re even one of the good guys! This is so cool. I never get to go places with them. Although, to be honest, your apartment doesn’t look like a swanky super-hero lair.”

  
Peter gave him a look, “I’m a student, not some superhero.”

  
“Mhm, and I’m perfectly sane.” Wade said, grinning, “That’s why the spandex suits are in your room. And here yellow box guessed you were a fetishist. Thought we were going to have a good time.”

  
Peter gulped around a suddenly dry throat. This wasn’t what he had been expecting. And here this man was, inside his house, his identity figured out within an hour. One of the most dangerous contract killers in the world knew his real name and his real job and probably where Aunt May lived by now. He’d fucked up, really fucked up. He should have just ignored the body and stopped even taking the alley home and just left him there, and not made him dinner and not flirted with him and not gaped at his muscles and sweat pant bulge and not let his identity out and not fucked up that badly. What could he even do to fix this? Aunt May needed to be safe, he couldn’t go back on his word and call Stark or someone now -

  
“Oh hey hey hey. Petey, stay with me.” Wade said, sliding towards him on the couch, “I’m not gonna do shit, I promise.”

  
Peter looked into the eyes of an insane assassin, but somehow, it was the most calm he’d felt in weeks. That didn’t stop the tears from rolling down his cheeks though. It also did nothing to stop the thoughts from spiraling tighter and tighter.

  
“Ah shit,” Wade muttered, taking the plate and setting it on the table, “breathe through it Petey, stay with me. You’re safe, you’re at home. I’m not going to hurt you, I promise. I don’t know who your family is, I promise. C’mon baby boy, stay with me, work your way through it.”

  
Peter took in a ragged breath, the first, he realized, in a while. He blinked a bit and scrubbed at his eyes.

  
“There you are!” Wade said gently, “Came right back to me, good for you. Here, can I touch you?”

  
Peter didn’t know, but he nodded.

  
Suddenly he was cradled into a chest, warm and comfortable, and a hand running through his floppy hair. There was a steady heartbeat under his ears, thrumming in the other man's chest. Stabel and safe and alive. 

  
A warm voice sounded beside his ear, “I get you, sometimes things are a lot.”

  
“I just-” Peter hated how weak his voice sounded, “You can’t tell anyone. You can’t get at Aunt May, you can’t get at MJ. I need them to be safe, and I need them to be ok. After Harry, after Gwen, I just need them. They need to be ok.”

  
“I won’t go after them. I won’t go after you,” Wade said, his hand still working through Peter’s hair, “Let me ask you though, are you ok?”

  
Peter tried to move to the side, but Wade’s arm wouldn’t easily budge. He sighed and flopped back to him.

  
“No,” he said into Wade’s chest.

  
“Sorry, what was that?” Wade asked gently.

  
“No. I’m not. I’m really not,” Once the words started, Peter couldn’t hold them in, “Aunt May needs help right now and I can’t give it. MJ says she wants a relationship but there’s no way I can give her that. I keep fucking up my patrol. I can’t sleep. The only thing I even can do right now is lab work. And even that’s not up to its normal quality. Shit. Just, no. No, I’m not.”

  
Wade sighed, “I can relate kid. Shit, can I relate.”

  
The hand continued to work it’s way through Peter’s hair, in calming circles. There were a few minutes of heavy silence.

  
“Look,” Wade finally asked, “are you feeling a bit better? More stable now that you’ve gotten it out?”

  
Peter nodded, and Wade started to speak. His tone was low and calming, but his words-

  
“Life isn’t very good right now. I wasn’t kicking anyone’s ass, I didn’t fall, I jumped. I figure eventually I’ll hit something that will manage to kill me. But until then, I at least get the pain of getting put back together. Until then, for that bit of time, I at least know I’m real.”

  
Peter wasn’t sure what to say. They stayed in that heavy silence; life weighing them down until the only real things were just themselves, a haze of shitty yellow lighting, and a saggy couch.

  
“You know Petey,” Wade said after a small eternity, “At least you have some people, y’know? Life is shit for me, and life may be shit for you, but you said you had people. You can probably talk to them. Take some time off, learn to be you again.”

  
Peter sighed, “Twenty-two stories just looks good sometimes.”

  
Wade laughed, it wasn’t unkind, “I know kid. I know.”

  
The hand had found his hair again, soothing circles that made it hard to keep his eyes open. At some point, Peter could’ve sworn he felt lips against his forehead.

*****

Wade sighed. Twenty-two stories looked mighty good. It generally did. But, but maybe that was for later. Right now, Peter needed help more than he did. Aunt May was the main person he’d seemed concerned about. So, Aunt May could probably help. At least, this kid was bright and smart and snarky enough and made tacos, so he’d at least be worth the effort. He kissed his forehead before he could stop himself, and slide out from under the smaller body. He was very very good at killing, but he was about to see how he’d manage healing.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter tries to come to terms with people actually caring for him, and the people around him try to show him they care. No one is particularly successful.

Mary Jane was running on about three hours of sleep too few. Her eyes were burning as she looked at the spreadsheet on her screen, when her phone vibrated, the screen lighting up with an unknown number. She eyed the pile of paperwork, and her lukewarm coffee, and decided she needed a new one. Technically she was supposed to get two fifteen minute breaks during the day. Not that she’d ever taken them. But she decided today she could use it. Maybe a fancy coffee from that new cafe down the block. It had been rough lately, maybe she could use a treat. 

She grabbed her phone, sliding it open as she stood up from her chair and left her cubicle. 

“This is MJ,” she said, blinking her way into the sun and fresh air.

As fresh as air in New York got. 

“Hi. This is a friend of Peter’s… I’m a bit concerned. Have you heard from him lately?” The voice on the other end caught in her ear weirdly, it was too high and thin. 

As a matter of fact, MJ had gotten a text from Peter the day before. He’d postponed their weekly dinner together, yet again.

“Yes, I have. Who is this?” MJ asked, her eyes narrowing as she tried to put a face to the voice. Peter didn’t have many friends and acquaintances. She should have met all of them, or at least been able to put a face to them. Especially a voice strange like this one. 

“One of his friends. I’m concerned about him.” The voice on the other end seemed hesitant, but MJ’s blood started to boil. 

Who was this? A mysterious voice calling, claiming to know Peter. This was a new sort of prank call and she wasn’t going to have it. 

“And,” she asked hotly, “why would that be?”

“He um. He expressed some suicidal intent while we were talking the other day. I thought that someone closer to him should know.” 

And then the line went dead, just as she was about to ream out whoever was on the other end. But she was left standing in front of a trendy, instagram-worthy cafe, her thoughts running a mile a minute and her heart in her throat.

She swiped at her face, her contour streaking as she rid her face of stressed, tired tears and opened the door. 

 

* * *

 

On the other side of the city, Wade Wilson stared down at the burner phone, an old Nokia flip. His blood was thrumming in his veins, he prayed he hadn’t fucked up too badly. He tried to pull strength from the indestructible phone model. He was sitting cross legged on a coffee table surrounded by pamphlets about depression and suicide. He’d left Peter’s apartment three days ago. He’d left his phone number, his actual phone number, on a piece of paper taped to the fridge.

He hadn’t heard anything from Peter, nor had he seen any recent news about Spiderman. The silence was deafening. 

He’d made himself busy though, learning proper “mental health strategies” and trying to track down the people important to Peter to let them know he was struggling. It was risky. It was probably not what Peter had had in mind when Wade had promised not to go after them, but it was the only thing he could think of. 

White box reminded him gently that there was no way to force Peter to get help, and he had to be kind with himself too. It was word for word from the pamphlet by his left knee. 

He’d made an executive decision to give it a week, and then he’d check in again. He wasn’t quite half way through. He clenched his fist, splintering the phone. He’d waited for things before and he’d wait for Peter. He wasn’t going to crowd. Peter was his own person and deserved to have some space.

 

* * *

 

Eyes still a little puffy, MJ stood with her hands on her hips, listening to her phone chirp from the counter. She was calling Peter, after work, without having any alcohol. She was a responsible adult dammit. After she’d collected her wits (and the coffee) earlier, she’d tried to call the number back, to try and figure out what was going on. The number had already been disconnected. But now, she needed to ask Peter what was going on with him. She knew it was the anniversary of Ben’s death. She knew that now probably wasn’t the time to talk about it, but she needed to know. 

“Hello?” Peter answered, finally picking up the phone.

MJ let out a breath she didn’t know that she’d been holding. 

“Hi Peter, it’s MJ,” She started, unsure where to go from here, “I got a call from a friend of yours today. I was wondering if you were able to get coffee or something sometime soon?”

“Um. I’m a bit busy today, obviously” He replied, “But maybe tomorrow? I’ve taken the week off of work. I needed a break.”

“Yes! Yes of course, tomorrow works. I finish work at 5, I’ll meet you for a coffee then? At that place near your apartment?”

“Yeah. Sounds good… MJ, who called you?” Peter sounded concerned, if slightly suspicious.

“I don’t know” She admitted, looking at the fridge, a picture of her and Peter from undergrad smiling back at her, “They called and said they were worried about you, but wouldn’t give me a name…” There was silence, but she pressed on, “Oh hey, did you want me to bring a casserole over from the Portuguese bakery? I know that May probably doesn’t want to cook today.”

“Yeah, yeah that would be really kind of you. I don’t know when we’ll be back to her place though.” 

“I’ll leave it in the fridge, I’ve still got a key.” 

The silence was heavier than any MJ had ever felt. 

“Thank you. For being around. Thank you.” And Peter hung up. 

MJ let out another breath she hadn’t been aware of holding, and grabbed her keys and purse. Slipping on her shoes, she looked into the mirror by her door. She’d redone her makeup twice today, the crying had messed up her contour and winged eyeliner at work. She’d redone it during lunch. Then when she’d gotten home and after she’d properly let out all the stress, which was what she was calling all the crying she’d finally gotten to, she’d put on a much more natural look. For MJ, the process of putting on makeup was meditative. It allowed her to ground herself and take time to methodically work on something. Recently her looks had been getting more and more complicated as she tried to work out the heavy weight that had been sitting on her shoulders the past few months. It wasn’t unusual for her to cry two or three times in a day. She wasn’t sure what it was, but there was too much going on, the city bustling around and gosling her, her work moving faster than she could keep up, and the people she cared about were getting more and more distant. 

She shook her head as her eyes welled up again, but now wasn’t the time. She took a deep breath to calm herself and left her apartment. The door shut firmly behind her.

 

* * *

 

Peter opened the door for Aunt May, letting her into the house before he entered. He toed off his shoes, the shadowy weight in his heart heavy, and the warm light in the front hall didn’t help relieve it. 

Visiting the graveyard theoretically shouldn’t have taken too long, but New York traffic had been reliable as it always was, and they’d gotten caught in rush hour on their way back. The light outside was long and soon the city would be dark. Peter Hung up his keys and his jacket, and went into the kitchen, opening the fridge to find the casserole, with some drinks and a bag of buns on top of it. Food left there by a friend who cared about him, but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen. Now wasn’t the time to feel guilty, but he couldn’t help it. 

“May,” He called to his aunt, who had gone up to her bedroom, “MJ dropped off some food for us. it’s a bit later then your normal dinner time but.” 

Aunt May popped into the kitchen just after the oven had gotten to temperature. Peter slid the casserole in, and set a timer. 

“That was kind of her. She’s a good friend Peter,” Aunt May said kindly, as she moved the drinks and bread to the table from the counter. 

“Yeah, she really is. I don’t see her as much as I should.”

“You haven’t seen much of anyone the past few months.” Aunt May fixed him with a knowing look. 

Peter swallowed and waded in the silence for a while, “It’s uh, been a rough couple of months honestly May. This week off was really needed. I feel heavy all the time, so I think this will be a chance to chill out, y’know?”

May nodded thoughtfully, “If you need anything Peter, you can ask or talk to me.” 

Peter felt the tears prick his eyes. The room was too quiet, and he took a deep breath. Even if he could have asked, he didn’t know what he was asking for. He was saved by the oven timer going off, and he hurried to it, pulling out the casserole and setting it on the table. 

They ate in silence.

 

* * *

 

When Peter left to go home later that night, Aunt May held him in the hug tighter and longer than normal. She seemed smaller than Peter remembered. The journey home wasn’t very long, the metro and walk not even being 40 minutes, but Peter didn’t make it very often. He figured he could make a bit more of an effort, at least for the next little while. It was always good to see Aunt May, and maybe she’d look less worried if she saw him more. 

Peter was deep in thought as he went, thinking about the past few days. People had been reaching out to him now in ways he hadn’t had before. Did that mean that he was this bad? Was he this bad at being independent and an actual adult that everyone needed to check up on him? Did he look as close to cracking as he felt? How come, even with all the people reaching out, he wasn’t able to connect? He managed to grab a seat on the subway, and double checked his stop. 

Why was the only person he was able to reach out to a mercenary who seemed to not be killing him and his family only because of some grace he seemed to posses. Peter’s mind went to the phone number on his fridge. He hadn’t move it, and was curious what would happen if he called it. Would Wade pick up? Would it be something that would get him into trouble? The man hadn’t seemed stable, constantly muttering to himself, and yet. Peter stepped out of the train onto the platform. 

And yet he was the person who seemed to get it, and know what Peter needed. But it wasn’t fair to ask a suicidal man for help with mental health. Peter smiled darkly at the thought as he went up the steps from the subway. He imagined how that conversation would go, something like _I know you just tried to kill yourself, but any chances you can teach me mindfulness?_ Yeah no. That wasn’t going to happen. He wasn’t going to become a burden to yet another person. He was already exhausting both MJ and Aunt May, who weren’t exactly the best and most healthy themselves. Only a year ago things had seemed so much better for all of them. What had happened that had turned things so bad? 

Peter stepped into the same orange lit alley as a few days ago. There was no body this time, and he let out just a bit of the weight he’d had. He looked around and started to pull himself up the side of the building. When he got to the top, he perched himself on the edge and looked around. Trying to figure out what Wade had seen before he’d jumped. Trying to figure out what he’d been thinking. 

He sat there for a long time before gingerly making his way back down and returning to his apartment. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What is a better way to take a break from studying than writing all the angst. Remember to reach out to people around you, if you're feeling this way you're not alone.

**Author's Note:**

> Heavy on suicide because I can't write anything that isn't angst. But, if you do have depression or suicidal thoughts, you aren't alone. Look for local helplines and assistance.  
> Canadians can look here for more information: https://thelifelinecanada.ca/help/


End file.
